Fixing the Cracks
by StrawberryLaceSuicide
Summary: A post-Mockinjay, pre-epilogue one-shot. Peeniss. I don't own The Hunger Games, or, you know, I'd be cool. Xx


_**AN: **_**Hello! This is just a oneshot I thought up after re-reading the trilogy and seeing the new film (which I love. It's not as good as the book, but it's damn near close). It takes place after the revolution, but before the ending ("You love me, real or not real?) and the epilogue. Kind of my take on what happened between Peeta's return, I guess.**

**Disclaimer: I hereby confess that I do not, and probably never will, own the Hunger Games. They are the invention of the genius Suzanne Collins, and as much as I'd love to steal them from her, there's too much evidence around for it to be feasible.**

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><p>I am broken.<p>

It's a fact, like any other.

The sky is blue, Prim is dead, I am broken. There are cracks running through my body, palpable. I wonder that they do not show, and then I am reminded of my scars, and realise that they do.

I spend the weeks after my return from the Capitol in a stupor. When Peeta returns, it is a jolt, a shock, like the ones Johanna suffered through at the hands of Snow.

For a while, I don't know how to react to his presence. I dance around him awkwardly, aware that he may not feel the same way anymore, after seeing what I am capable of. Our trials have changed us, both of us. He is as broken as me.

We do not avoid each other, but we do not seek each other's company. I can only assume that he is as wary of seeing me as I am of seeing him.

When the primroses he planted in my garden bloom, I run to him, thoughtless. I stand in his doorway, breathless, and see him straighten from where he has been removing a tray of bread from the oven. He looks at me, a frown of concern forming on his face, and begins to limp towards me, arms out held.

"Katniss? Is everything okay?"

I can only nod. My cheeks begin to flush at the rashness of my decision to come here. I don't speak, but wrap my fingers around his wrist, and tug him from the house. He follows me without hesitation. That trust that so defined him is still there, and my heart warms with the realisation.

I lead him in silence, and he follows my lead, not interrupting. When we eventually draw to a stop in front of the flowerbed, I fall on my knees, and pull him down beside me.

"Katniss…" he says, reaching out and stroking the petals of one of the beautiful flowers. He looks at me. "Thank you for showing me."

I nod, and then blush under the warmth of his gaze, directing my eyes back to the blossoms. Prim. These flowers are all the grave she will have. Warm tears pool in my eyes, and I try to blink them back before they can fall. Peeta must notice this, because his fingers stroke the side of my face.

"Hey."

I don't meet his eyes.

"Hey." He repeats, more forcefully. He tilts my face towards him, forcing me to look at him.

"Are you okay?"

I nod mutely, but the tears glisten in my eyes. When he pulls me into his chest, the movement seems natural. I do not resist, leaning into him without thinking. Then, we freeze, simultaneously, realising what has happened. I begin to pull away, scared of making him uncomfortable, but his arms hold me.

"No," he says, "It's okay."

I lean back into him, grateful for his solidity. A pleasant warmth spreads slowly through me, and it strikes me that this is the closest I have been to somebody since I have returned to District 12. I realise how starved I have been for human company, and not just company - because what Haymitch and Greasy Sae provide is nothing compared to this – but proximity. I inhale Peeta's scent, bread and new grass and freshness. His heartbeat is a steady rhythm against my ear where it is pressed to his chest, and I start to relax, bit by bit. Then, Peeta speaks.

"It's still hard, sometimes. Sometimes I just need to stop, before I lose control."

I know he is telling me this as a warning, that is we are going to try this – this – whatever it is, I must accept the part of him that will never be the same. I search myself, and find that I can. This, somehow, fails to surprise me. Then, I steel myself for my confession, because he has shared his demons with me, and it is only fair that I return the favour.

"Every night, I dream, and I wake up, screaming. Every night."

"I know." He says. I try to look up at him, but my position makes it difficult, and I am comfortable where I am. "I hear you, sometimes, from my house. I've thought about coming over a million times, but I didn't want to make it worse."

I digest this knowledge slowly, let it sink in before I speak.

"You wouldn't have. I missed you."

"I missed you, too. But I'm not the same as I was before."

"And you think I am?" This time, I do look at him, tilting my head upwards and squinting as the sun burns into my eyes.

"No." He says. "No. But that's okay. We're okay."

"Okay." I settle back in to him, and we stay like that for what must be hours, because the shadows around us grow long. And, slowly, I feel the cracks inside me begin to seal. Yes, I am broken. So is he.

Together, maybe we can fix each other.

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><p><strong>Xx<strong>


End file.
